About Me

Woman, reader, writer, wife, mother of two sons, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, state university professor, historian, Midwesterner by birth but marooned in the South, Chicago Cubs fan, Anglophile, devotee of Bruce Springsteen and the 10th Doctor Who, lover of chocolate and marzipan, registered Democrat, practicing Christian (must practice--can't quite get the hang of it)--and menopausal.
Names have been changed to protect the teenagers. As if.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Fertility + Dementia

Oh for pete's sake. I've got my period. A full-blown, bright red, flowing, I am fertile too bad you didn't inseminate me a few weeks ago period.

My mom had a friend, acquaintance really, who got pregnant at age 52--back in the Dark Ages, before artificial insemination and test-tube babies and surrogacy and the rest of our Brave New World. Mom always talks about this pregnancy in a tone of horror. I think it'd be kinda cool, really. Shoot, I like babies and little kids and now I'd actually have some sense of what I was doing. And by the time said baby became a horrid teenager, like the one clumping through the house right now, well, I wouldn't really notice much, would I? I'd just shake my head, the one with no hair left, and wave my arms, the ones with the extendable skin, and hobble back to the sofa to watch another episode of Doctor Who.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Once upon a time

So, are you watching on Friday?

Oh, come on. 'Fess up. I won't tell. I'll think you're a lunatic, but I won't tell.

If you haven't a clue as to what I'm talking about, well, kudos, my friend. But, umm, you are sort of uninformed, tho', aren't you? As the rest of the sentient universe knows, Wills and Kate are finally tying the knot on Friday and the whole world will be watching.

My students were rather surprised and, in fact, somewhat dismayed to discover I am not planning to get up at 3 am to watch the live coverage of the wedding. "But you're a British historian," they protested. "This is history! Being made!" Which would be sort of cute and adorable if I hadn't just spent a semester trying to teach them a slightly more nuanced definition of history and the making thereof.

It's not like I dislike the Royal Family. I don't. When I'm in the checkout line, I'll always pull down the magazine with a royal on the cover. Beats Brangelina and Britney any day. And in fact, I have something of an exotic pedigree as a royal watcher. I don't imagine there are many other Americans who can boast hosting a Queen's Jubilee Garden Party.

It was all Hugh's fault, of course. While we were living in Manchester, the Queen celebrated her Golden Jubilee. Hugh, then about six, attended the local primary school where they held a picnic on the Friday afternoon in the Queen's honor. Hugh came home simply on fire about the whole concept of the Jubilee and proceeded to draw up and distribute invitations to a Jubilee Garden Party in our back yard ("back garden," in Brit speak) to the entire neighborhood. Without telling us. So suddenly on Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves with a party on our hands. I think, had we not been "The Americans," the party would not have happened. But, confronted with this (seemingly legit) invitation from The Americans celebrating Our Queen, the neighbors were too embarrassed not to come--and come they did. And stay they did. We ransacked the fridge and cupboards and concocted weird party food on the spot and once we had drained our actually rather abundant liquor supply, the neighbors dashed back to their houses and returned with six-packs of beer. Hugh's Garden Party turned into one of the highlights of our three-year sojourn, an alcohol-sodden, pretzel-and-cake-filled, hours and hours-long delight in the rare Manchester sunshine, complete with beery toasts to a portrait of Her Maj.

So, no, I'm not opposed to the Royal Family. I'm not opposed to Wills or Kate. I'll even make sure I buy a souvenir wedding mug this summer, to match the Charles and Diana cup in which I keep my pens.

And yes, way back when Diana tumbled into marriage with the yet-debonair Charles, I did watch the ceremony live--from a tiny living room of a rented house in what was then West Germany, crowded on the carpet with the 25 other students with whom I was spending the summer traveling in Europe.

And then, a week later, in a London still bedecked with wedding bunting, I stood in line in the pouring rain (not your typical London mist, mind you, but torrential drenching rain, with tremendous cracks of thunder and spectacular blasts of lightning) for several hours and then tramped through St. James Palace, soaking wet and muddy, to view the Wedding Gifts. Room after room filled with not only the various precious items sent by various global dignitaries of behalf of various unsuspecting publics--I believe the American People gave Charles and Diana an American Primitive painting--but also, and so much more interesting, the ordinary gifts sent by ordinary people to a couple they seemed to believe would be happily ordinary. Yes, the toaster from Paul and Sheila Thomas of Somerset, the tea cozy from Thomas and Margaret Ashton of Kent, the plastic picnicware from George and Vera Barnes of Birmingham. As if Charles and Diana, like Paul and Sheila and Thomas and Margaret and George and Vera before them, were really embarking on an ordinary, toast-making, tea-drinking, picnic-laden married life.

Such innocence. Rather like The Dress. That amazing puffball dress. The Fairy Princess Dress. Only a 19-year-old blonde virgin could pull off that dress.

Kate, the fashion commentators assured me as I was flipping thru the channels several nights ago, Kate will not wear such a dress. Hers will be more sophisticated and slender, more befitting her willowy frame and the worldly wisdom of her 28 years. And Kate has not been subjected to a physical exam to confirm her virginity, with the results trumpeted across the globe. We have moved on. Good for us. Good for Kate.

Still. Hardly worth getting up at 3 am for, is it?

Saturday, April 23, 2011

At the Beach

Am at the beach. Blogging at the beach. Is that cool? Or is that pitiful? I'm ambivalent.

The Beach, in this case, in all cases concerning me and my family, is Gulf Shores, Alabama. One doesn't have real beaches in Louisiana--just bayous and marshes, teeming with leeches and alligators and such like. Then comes Mississippi, but its beaches pre-Katrina were rocky and dirty, and post-Katrina, well, let's say they remain a work in progress. One could bypass Alabama and continue down the interstate to Pensacola, but as soon as the car crosses the state line into Florida the prices rise, as does the socio-economic status and the physical fitness of the beach-goers, and the quality of the goods in the shops and restaurants.

Since we don't like to go out when we're at the beach, we prefer Gulf Shores. Decent prices. White sand. The appropriately uber-tacky souvenirs. And, the absolute essential of any beach break, lots of obese Americans in all their glory--the guy with the gigantic beer belly curling over his belt like a generous scoop of ice cream on a cone, his buddy with the tattooed eagle proclaiming "Liberty or Death," his amply proportioned girlfriend who sports a string bikini all the same.

My, but we are an ugly people.

Yet the sun is shining and the breeze is fresh and the laughter, like the waves, rolls up and peaks and diminishes and crescendoes again; the beer belly guy leans over and gives his girl's broad shoulder a gentle kiss; the tattooed friend walks over and offers us a beer and a chicken wing.

Easter weekend. All things made new.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Miss Daisy Driving

OK. Now I'm really pissed off. Women of the World, Unite!

The folks at have Volkswagen rolled out the new Beetle. Gawd. My lovely funky adorable Beetle is now a bubble-lacking, stretched-out, big ol' ordinary car. And DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHYYY? Because the Beetle, the Real Beetle, my Beetle, my only beloved automobile, has been labeled a "Chick Car." Worse than that, a chick car that apparently appeals to "chicks" in their 50s and 60s.

Sigh. Guys have entire lines of macho pick-ups, massive volumes of Muscle Cars, entire lines of Corvettes and Lamborghinis and godknowswhatelse. Why do they need my Beetle? And young chicks, they have tight butts and skin that doesn't flap in the wind and an enviable lack of chin hair. Do they really need my Beetle? (Tho' frankly I think the more discerning of the younger female generation are, in fact, Beetle buyers. Based on copious scientific observation here on the streets of Baton Rouge.)

I was already feeling rather disgruntled jand put upon and discriminated against. Have you heard of Zestra--as in "Zestra Essential Arousal Oils, a blend of botanical oils and extracts that promise to enhance sexual arousal for women"? No, you probably have not, even tho', admit it, now that you have, you're really interested, aren't you? And do you know why you haven't heard about this product in which you have a strong, even passionate interest? Because major media outlets--tv networks, cable and radio stations, Facebook, and even WebMD (!) have refused to run commercials for it. Evidently it's ok for us to be forced to contemplate four-hour erections night after night, it's fine for us to see grey-haired amorous men with a certain twinkle in their eyes smiling at the camera while unbuttoning their Oxford shirts and discussing their new sexual potency, it's just hunky-dory to watch that getting-on-a-bit couple holding hands in their separate outdoor bathtubs while they watch the sunset (what is up with that? no pun intended). But the idea of women wanting, and yes, needing a wee bit of help now and then with, sexual arousal--from this we've got to be sheltered.

So, I've had it. I'm starting a Women United to Save the Old (new) Beetle Campaign and I'm instructing all members to purchase Zestra as their first campaign duty. Because I figure if we're all having really satisfying sex lives, we'll be better campaigners, constantly aroused, so to speak, to fight for justice, to demand satisfaction in all its forms.

What, you say? You don't have a partner right now? No worries. According to the New York Times, "in one online ad for Zestra, a woman says that, “It works so well, when I think about it, it even makes me want to go home and use it now.” There are no men anywhere in the picture."

But I'll bet she's driving home in a Beetle.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Sometimes it all works out

Ahh. Great Parenting Moments.

The other night Hugh told me to shut up. Consequence (delivered in firm, even, "there's nothing you can do that can upset me or ever stop me loving you" tone. . . yah, who's kidding who. . . picture a shrieking harridan with crazy hair and you've pretty much got it): loss of beloved iPhone for 24 hours.

Ten hours later: it's 6:30 am; Hugh's school ride is at the door; he has high-stakes testing all day; and he insists he has to have his phone. I point out that he can't use his phone at school, let alone during testing. He says, sheepishly, charmingly, self-deprecatingly, "I know, I know, it's really dumb and it sounds nuts but it's like my security blanket. If my phone's not in my pocket, I can't think about anything else. I freak out. I really need it today."

I fall for it. It's just crazy enough that I fall for it. And of course, five minutes after he's left I'm thinking, for pete's sake, what did I just do? How's he ever going to learn anything? He needs me to be consistent. etc. etc. etc.

In the midst of testing that day, Hugh's phone alarm goes off and disturbs the whole auditorium. Amazingly, his test results are not voided but his phone is confiscated. For the rest of the school year.

When he tells me, I burst out laughing. Justice.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Not intended to be a factual statement

So by now everyone has heard about Arizona Senator Jon Kyl defending his allegation that abortions account for "90% of what Planned Parenthood does" (the actual figure is 3%)by saying that his claim was "not intended to be a factual statement."

I feel so inspired. I've been incredibly anxious lately, wondering how in the world I am going to complete everything I've contracted to do, as well as my regular job. Now I know. I spend all this time making sure that what I teach my students reflects the latest and best research in modern European history. Well, shit. Now I realize I can just make it up. I mean, really, what's my ultimate aim? Is it that they accumulate a bunch of facts about European history? Of course not. That's what the internet is for. I'm endeavoring 1)to teach them how to analyze and to think critically, and 2) to foster good citzenship, to make them care about the world and their place in it. So who needs "factual statements"? Gosh, why didn't I figure this out long ago? I guess that's why we have leaders like Jon Kyl. Thank you, Senator.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

On the Bike

I've bought a bike. I am Woman. Biking Woman.

Really sore Biking Woman.

Good lord. Amazing what happens to one's post-50 body when one does little to move that body (blame the foot surgery) for several months.

Still, aching thighs and sore butt and all, I'm feeling good. (Even though I meant to buy a moderately priced old lady bike and instead shelled out an astounding, horrifying, yay downright embarrassing amount of money for Le Ultra Light Totally Cool Sleekly Silver Moderny Metallic old lady bike. All our retirement funds now ride on this bike.)

You see, I used to ride a bike. A 1970s bright blue ten-speed. I worked all summer at Moy's Chinese Carry-Out to earn the money to buy that bike. I faithfully oiled and greased it. I conquered the frontage roads of west suburban Chicago on that bike. And then, in graduate school, I realized one of my deepest dreams: I became a city cyclist. All over the North Side and downtown Chicago, I dodged taxi cabs and behemoth buses, streaked through red lights, careened across sidewalks and onto the lakefront bikepath, sped through clusters of tourists and lost pods of Cubs fans, and pedaled like fury past the Juneway Jungle, a notorious gang hangout on my way home to my studio apartment in Rogers Park. I was young and life was good and Chicago was amazing and the future was wide open. I have never been so happy as I was on that bike in that city.

And now I'm middle-aged and life is complicated and Baton Rouge ain't Chicago and the future is all hemmed in by the past and the present. I have spent much of the last two decades learning to negotiate happiness in the midst of chronic headaches and bouts of clinical depression.

But I can still ride a bike.

And--pedalling in the lowest gear, at a pace barely able to keep the bike upright--I remember what it was like to feel, to feel, goddamn, to feel like me.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Expelled

I got kicked out of physical therapy yesterday. Failure to progress. My toe has refused to meet the minimum standards of joint movement. It flunked. It is doomed to a deadend job at minimum wage with no benefits.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Because I Have No Daughters

Once, I was a teenaged girl.

My teenaged sons assure me, however, that that "once upon a time, long, long ago, in a country far, far away" experience has absolutely no relevance to life as they know it today.

So I wonder, do teenaged girls today--
flush the toilet?
zip their jeans?
tie their shoelaces?
close cabinet doors?
shut dresser drawers?
toss their dirty clothes in the basket?
write down phone messages?
write down legible phone messages?
write down legible phone messages that they then remember to give to the messagee?
use a breadknife rather than the chef's knife to butter their bagle?
twist the bread bag closed?
put the mayo bottle back in the fridge?
put the cap on the mayo bottle before putting it back in the fridge?
put the empty mayo bottle in the recycling bin rather than back in the fridge?
regard the distance between the sink and the dishwasher as an unbridgeable chasm?
recognize that when the linen closet shelves yawn blankly, it is time to collect and launder the many damp, molding towels draped, strewn, clumped around their bedroom?
or do they instead raid the outside storage room for beach towels? or resort to dish cloths?

Do teenaged girls yell at their mom for waking them up?
yell at their mom for not waking them up?
yell at their mom for calling them more than once to wake them up?
yell at their mom for calling them only once to wake them up?

Do they smile cheekily and say, with utter certainty, "You know you couldn't live without me"?